Deuces Down

  Spector hunkered down, peering over the dead bodies, hoping for a thin, pale-skinned corpse with a half-open blouse. He looked up at Phan and shook his head.

  “I can’t fucking believe this,” Phan said.

  “Hey, you were the one in the front room. You were supposed to be watching for people coming out.”

  “She didn’t come out the front.”

  “Well, there isn’t a back way,” Spector said.

  Phan moved back into the little kitchen without a word. Spector followed him. It was small—too small to hide in. But it did have a window; an open one with a thin ledge beyond. Spector poked his head out. It was eight stories down the street, but the ledge—thin as a sidewalk curb—led along the side of the building to a black metalwork fire escape.

  “Oh,” Spector said, pulling his head back in the apartment. “Well, that sucks.”

  Father Henry Obst watched Quasiman stir the sauce. The steak sizzled on the grill and the scent of the meat and the fried onions in the sauce filled the small kitchen in the church basement. Father Henry’s spiral-bound notebook lay open before him on the table. He tapped the pages impatiently with his pencil.

  “I was off my stride is all,” Father Henry said. “I should have come in a day or two earlier, just to get my bearings. It’s long drive from Alabama, and I ain’t the young man I once was. Threw my timing off.”

  Quasiman looked thoughtfully over his shoulder as his leg flickered in and out of existence, but didn’t speak. Father Henry took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and thick, pale finger.

  “Dammit, though, I have never in my life had anyone boo a homily. It’s rude, sir. It’s just plain rude.”

  The hunchback blinked, considered him as if they were meeting for the first time, then smiled ruefully, nodding his head in sympathy. “Jokertown makes for a rough audience, even in church,” Quasiman said.

  “I’ll do better next week.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I will. I’ve got better material. Y’all are always listening to Father Squid. Now he’s a fine man, but somber, if you see what I mean. No sense of humor. I’m pulling out my Age of Empty Miracles sermon. Usually hold that one off for Easter, but I don’t imagine many of these fella’s will be coming down to Selma.”

  “He is a killer, risen from the dead,” Quasiman said, his tone light and conversational. “Before that I think he sold insurance.”

  Father Henry put his glasses back on and the hunchback swam into focus. His expression was placid and helpful, like he’d just passed on some interesting piece of Jokertown history. Father Henry closed the notebook and considered for a moment what to say to his caretaker and guide.

  “What in Christ’s name are you talking about, boy?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head like he was trying to sober up. “I thought you said something.”

  With an apologetic shrug, the hunchback vanished. The spoon he had been stirring with slid into the sauce with a low plop. Father Henry looked at the sudden absence, shook his head, and went over to turn off the flame before the steak burned.

  When Father Squid had called him with the news—the world tour with Senator Hartmann, the chance to see the fate of jokers in third-world hellholes around the globe—Father Henry had been half-afraid that the tentacled padre was going to ask him along. The request that he come up to New York and perform the Mass for a couple weeks had been such a relief that he’d agreed to it without really thinking. Now he found himself hundreds of miles from home preaching to a bunch of New York jokers and trying to keep a barely-present hunchback from scorching dinner.

  He grabbed a fork and trawled the sauce until he pulled out the stirring spoon. It was too hot to hold. He found out by trying and dropped the spoon back under the surface.

  The sauce wasn’t quite right. Stirring with the fork with his left hand, he took a glass off the sideboard with his right, reached over for the faucet and started a thin stream of water flowing. He set his mind to the clear ribbon until his wild card surged down his arms, through his fingers, and the water blushed, bloodied, and became a cheap Merlot. He filled the glass and poured half of it into the sauce to let the alcohol cook off. The faucet was running clear again when he closed the faucet down.

  He hesitated before emptying the glass, but he did. A thirteen-year-old Alabama boy, finding he can change water to wine, never took it as a sign he should become a priest. Like any right-thinking Southerner in the situation, he became an alcoholic. A thirty-six-year old recovering drunkard and closet deuce, on the other hand, had been known to hear the call of the Lord. Even cooking with wine was actually against the rules, and tempting as it was to scootch a little farther off the wagon, Father Henry held to his resolve and had a pop with his dinner. The steak was good—juicy with just a little blood—and the sauce was tart and sweet, just enough to season the meat without drowning it. He’d give the hunchback that—the man could cook.

  He cleaned his dishes when he was done and left the remains in a Tupperware box, in case Quasiman showed back up hungry. He looked over his notes one last time, sighed, and hefted himself up the stairs and out the rear sacristy door into the cool night air. Father Squid had lent him the use of the cottage for the length of his stay, and he strolled through the small herb garden and up to the locked metal door.

  Back home in Selma, he would have taken a short constitutional, down to the coffee shop or possibly over to flirt for a few minutes with the Widow Lander, before going home to his own modest apartments, pictures of St. Peter’s and a lovely Roman sunset over his own simple wooden desk. He might read or write letters for an hour or two before packing himself off to bed.

  Father Squid’s cottage was gray and close compared to his home, and it did smell like a fish market. His bags were still half-packed. He sat on the bed. It was barely eight at night, and still much earlier than he was used to going to sleep. He had hoped that the caretaker of the church might be put upon to show him around, but that had been before he’d actually set eyes on the man. Which left him with his present options.

  Jokertown after dark, a lone yokel braving the meanest streets of New York or Takis or whatever you decided Jokertown was really part of. Sounded stupid. But ministering to the twisted bodies and souls around him without having the courage to meet them face straight on seemed like hypocrisy. With his luck, they’d find him floating in the bay, and Quasiman would have to find some poor Episcopalian to perform next Sunday’s mass.

  He snapped his fingers and snatched open his notebook. Flipping to a clean page, he wrote “In this age of empty wonders, a real miracle is something small and precious. Like me walking through Jokertown at night and not getting killed.” He grinned, then frowned and crossed it out. Maybe when he got home. These New York jokers might not think that was funny.

  He loaded up all the little presents his sister had sent him when she heard he was going to take the assignment—a hand-held stungun, a canister of pepper spray, and a large gaudy crucifix that mirrored the one above the pulpit with its two-headed joker Christ impaled on a DNA helix. It wasn’t the sort of iconography that went over well with the Archbishop, but here it might mark him as belonging. And, of course, a camera so he could give a slide show when he got home.

  “Oh, Mother,” he muttered, “God bless you. You gave birth to a fool and a papist.”

  Despite the chill of the night, there was a good bit more foot traffic than he’d expected. Most folks ignored him, hurrying along their own business. Some jokers had their bare faces out, however disfigured. Others wore masks. Father Henry found himself falling into his old habit of smiling and nodding to people as he passed, like he was back home.

  He stopped by the Crystal Palace because it was famous and, once he introduced himself as Father Squid’s stand-in, had his picture taken with the eyeless bartender. The twist-spined, grey-skinned clerk at an all-night bookstore along the way home asked him with a genteel g
race whether he was out whoring and still treated him respectfully when he said no. Even the thin figures standing around trash fires, rubbing their hands or tentacles seemed more benign than he’d expected. For all the fear and angry talk—joker orgies, gang war, streets it was death for a nat to walk down after dark—Father Henry could name three or four road-houses in Alabama that had felt more threatening to him than this.

  There were some moments when he felt like he’d walked into a bad hallucination—once when a section of sidewalk yelped under-foot and shifted off to become part of a wall, another time when something like a giant tongue called to him from a storm-sewer grate and asked the time. Despite all that, by the time he stopped to buy a newspaper from a poor walrus-man, he felt almost at home.

  “You’re new around here?” the walrus said, smiling jovially.

  “You could say that,” he agreed. “Father Henry Obst. I’m filling in for Father Squid for a couple weeks.”

  “Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” the walrus said.

  “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  “And don’t worry about it too much. I’m sure next Sunday will go better.”

  A true miracle would be a place without small-town gossip and slander, he thought, but kept his smile all the way back to the cottage.

  The problem was, of course, how to get through the crust of anger and despair—and self-pity, worst of all self-pity—that came with drawing the joker. He’d spent enough years himself living with scorching self-hatred to know the smell when he was up to his asshole in it, as his sainted mother would have said. It was poison, but he’d seen strong souls overcome it.

  The problem with despair, he thought, was that it wasn’t really despair when you could see your way clear of it. If he could only . . .

  “Father?”

  He blinked. The woman was crouched down beside the cottage door. Woman, hell. Girl was closer. Maybe eighteen years old with black hair and eyes and a tiny little skirt. She didn’t seem to be a joker of any stripe.

  “Well now, miss,” he said gently, “what can I do for you?”

  She stood up. Poor little thing barely came to his chin, and Father Henry had never been called a tall man. Her face, now that it was more in the light, was sharp as a fox’s and her shirt streaked with blood.

  “You’re taking over for Father Squid, right?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

  “Yes, I’ve agreed to help take up the slack, as it were.”

  “So you’re the priest?”

  “Yes. But there’s this other fella who’s really taking care of the place. I’ve only been in the city since . . .”

  “I’ve come to beg for the sanctuary of the church,” she said, the phrase so formal it sounded rehearsed. “I’m in trouble. And I can’t take it to the police because I’m a Jokertown whore, and they wouldn’t help me.”

  She stood there, her chin jutting out like she was daring him to send her away—back to her pimp or her family or whoever put her out on these streets. Eighteen might have been guessing high. She could have been younger.

  Well, Lord, he thought. I don’t know what you have in mind on this one, but here goes.

  “Well now. Let’s see,” Father Henry said. “There’s a room in the church basement you can stay in tonight at least. We’ll talk about this, see what seems like the best thing to do after that. You got a couple bags there? Let me help you with those.”

  WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1987

  Joey Piretta knew knocks. The cops, they knocked one way—bang bang bang like there was a pissed-off elephant coming through. Then there was the landlord, old man Fazetti; he knocked hard, but only once, showing his authority, ’cause he was the landlord and all, but still showing respect because if he didn’t Joey might kill him. The one that woke him up, though, wasn’t like either one of those. It was just a quiet double tap. That was Mazzucchelli.

  Joey got up from the couch, adrenaline pumping, and didn’t quite knock over the half-empty beer cans on the coffee table. He grabbed the orange prescription bottle off the floor and pushed it down between the rough beige cushions. It rattled like a fucking baby toy. He delivered a quick prayer up the heaven that Mazzucchelli hadn’t heard it and crossed himself. The knock came again, a half a beat less time between the impacts. Joey pulled himself up, ran a hand through his hair, and tried to suck in his gut.

  When he opened the door, Chris Mazzucchelli greeted him with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

  “Hey,” Joey said, faking pleasure and surprise. “Chris! How you doin’?”

  “Fine, Joey. And you?” Mazzuccheli asked, walking into the apartment. “The wrists still bothering you?”

  “They still hurt a little sometimes. The scar tissue’s all messed up with the nerves. But you know how it is.”

  Mazzucchelli smiled and nodded to the door. Joey closed it, apologizing with a gesture. The apartment looked like hell and smelled like a cheap bar. He wished he’d gotten around to washing the dishes last night. It just didn’t look professional the way they were all stacked up in the sink. Mazzucchelli walked into the living room but didn’t sit. Joey stood respectfully back, crossing his arms and scratching absently at the recent pink flesh the size of a quarter on his right forearm.

  “You’re not still on the pain stuff,” Mazzucchelli said.

  “Nah. Not for weeks. Just some aspirin sometimes.”

  “Good. I have a job for you, Joey.”

  Joey tried to pull himself up a little taller and deepened his scowl, just so as Mazzucchelli knew he was taking it seriously.

  “Someone interrupted a negotiation last night. They killed some of our men and the jokers we were doing business with. They also took the merchandise we were picking up and the money we’d taken to pay for it. Half a million dollar, untraceable, and suitcase of heroin.”

  “Ah,” Joey said, nodding.

  “You understand?”

  “Sure,” he said shrugging. “Find ’em. Kill ’em. Get the stuff back.”

  “How about you start with just looking around. Once we find it, we can worry about killing people.”

  “Just look around. Check.”

  “You’ve been out of action for a while, Joey. You think you’re up for this?”

  “No trouble. None at all.”

  “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll have Lapierre get in touch with you and . . .”

  “Ah, c’mon boss. I don’t need some smart-ass college fucker hanging off of me. I got sources. I can do this.”

  “You want to take this one by yourself?”

  “Yeah. Look, if I find something, I’ll let you know. Don’t worry about before. The thing with Chrysalis and the arrow guy, that was a one-time thing. Never happen again.”

  Mazzucchelli paused, then walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, Joey.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “Show some respect for yourself. Clean the place.”

  “I will, boss.”

  Mazzucchelli went out, closing the door behind him. Joey lumbered back to the couch and sat down heavily. He dug his hand into the cushions and came out with the rattling bottle of darvon. He popped two of the great big hot pink capsules into his hand even though his arms weren’t really aching much and swallowed them dry.

  The pills seemed to lodge about halfway down his throat.

  It just wasn’t starting off to be a good day.

  The Crystal Palace always looked worse in the daylight. Darkness and neon suited it better. Demise slouched across the empty lot beside it, Phan Lo two steps behind him and to his left. The day was overcast, but Phan wore dark Blues Brothers sunglasses all the same.

  “Danny Mao was pretty pissed off, eh?”

  “It’s fine,” Demise said. “I told him it was your fault.”

  Phan went silent for a moment, only the sound of their footsteps over the constant murmur of the city.

  “You’re fucking with me, right?” Phan said.


  “Look,” Demise said, sighing, “let’s just get the shit back and then it won’t matter what I said.”

  Demise reached the service entrance and pushed his way into the darkness. The storeroom was filled with kegs of beer and crates and boxes of harder liquor. A violet-skinned joker with a wattle like a rooster bent over a wooden crate of wine bottles, counting on his fingers. When he looked up, his eyes met Demise’s briefly and a shock of pain appeared in the joker’s face, the wattle shriveling and turning gray at the edges.

  “We need to talk to Chrysalis,” Demise said.

  The joker turned and ran back into the building. Phan Lo strode forward and barked his shin on a crate.

  “Take the shades off,” Demise said. “You look like an idiot.”

  “Nah, man. I like ’em.”

  “Look, I promise not to kill you . . .”

  “What do you want?” a man’s voice demanded. Sascha, eyeless and frowning, walked toward them. Demise grimaced. Sascha always gave him the creeps.

  “Where’s Chrysalis?”

  “India, I think,” Sascha said.

  “Fuck, that’s right. She’s on that thing with Tachyon and the senator, isn’t she.”

  “What do you want, Spector?” Sascha asked again.

  “What does anyone ever want from Chrysalis? We need some information. And we can pay for it.”

  Sascha’s expression seemed to change. He nodded.

  “There’s about to be someone trying to unload about twenty-five pounds of uncut white heroin at fire-sale prices.”

  “And you’re looking to buy?”

  “No. We just need to talk with the seller.”

  “Since when are you working with the Fist?”

  “Ran into the Sleeper a while back. He pointed out they might be hiring. The seller I’m looking for is an independent, though,” he said. “Anything the Mafia’s going to get pissed about has already happened. You’ll be out of the crossfire.”

  “Leave a number,” Sascha said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”